


Naam

by Nifflers_and_Crookshanks



Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Hinduism, Islam, Missing Scene, Mythology References, One Shot, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Religion, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nifflers_and_Crookshanks/pseuds/Nifflers_and_Crookshanks
Summary: At eight years old, the rajkumari of Amer has no way of knowing that history will not remember her as Jodhaa Bai.
Relationships: Jodhaa/Akbar
Comments: 19
Kudos: 29





	Naam

Jodhaa is eight years old when she decides that she doesn’t like her name.

“Rajkumari,” Madhavi says, a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder drawing her from her dreams, “Rajkumari, Rani Sa requests your presence. She wants you to meet your new sister,”

The youngest rajkumari is no more than a bundle of silks, slumbering soundly in her mother’s arms, but Jodhaa watches in fascination nonetheless. It’s not as though she hasn’t seen a baby before, Bhagwant Das and Bhagwati Bai had a son not three months ago. Mann Singh, however, quickly proved to be a disappointing baby in so far as he was grumpy and cried often, making him a poor playmate. Still, Jodhaa likes holding the little bundles, singing to them softly and listening to her grandmother’s sweet praises of her. She’s been told that in time she will have a baby of her own to hold and looks forward to it, just like any other of her duties. 

“What will she be called, Rani Sa?” Bhagwati Bai asks her mother in law, and Rani Padmavati smiles.

“Shivani,” The devout woman announces, content in the knowledge that her own personal deity has finally been favoured in the names of Raja Bharmal’s children.

Jodhaa pauses, eyebrows creasing into a frown.

She sulks the rest of the day. Her mother is too busy with the baby, along with all the rest of the wives, and even her sister in law and grandmother do not make the time for her. A rajkumari is sweet, pliant and obedient, but Jodhaa feels none of these things in the face of this injustice.

Finally, it is Sujamal Bhai Sa that finds her, tucked away in a corner of the gardens where an old tree stands, long dead from the scorching heat. There is no shade here and without her veil Jodhaa is sure that Madhavi would scold if she found the princess like this, but she can’t find the will to care. When she hears footsteps that lack the soft chimes of bejewelled finery, footsteps that dance in the mornings below her window as he practices with his sword, her mood lightens for the first time since the morning.

“Jodhaa, what has made you so upset?”

She almost can’t see him for the sun in her eyes, but it’s Sujamal looming over her, a concerned expression on her face.

 _It’s petty_ , she wants to admit. _Feelings unbeffiting a rajkumari_. Jodhaa, however young she is, has always known what dignity is, what pride is, and refuses to bow to self doubt.

So, she stands as tall as her small stature will permit, raising her chin in an imitation of her grandmother’s manner, fixes her eyes on her foster brother and makes her case.

“Why should I be named Jodhaa?” She challenges, with such a serene look on her face that Sujamal might have forgotten that it was his eight year old cousin standing before him, sunburnt and covered in dust.

He blinks, once, twice and then thrice, because somehow she has caught him off guard yet again.

“What do you mean? Why should you not be named Jodhaa?”

“I have two sisters now,” The rajkumari asserts almost imperiously, “Sukanya is four years my junior and yet is honoured with a name from the Mahabharata. My youngest sister, who is only a handful of days old, is now to be named for Mahadev. Do you not think that my name is incongruous with theirs?”

Sujamal, despite his intent, can not help but chuckle at his little cousin’s regal demeanour and her use of such formal language.

“There is nothing wrong with your name, Jodhaa,” He laughs and, for perhaps the first time, his smile is not answered in the rajkumari’s face. Instead, her eyes stray to the side and the space next to him, waiting for him to regain his composure.

“Bhai Sa, I am the first rajkumari of Amer and furthermore, mother always says that when I am older I will be a rani of my own kingdom,” It’s as though the very act of announcing such things steels her determination and reinforces her will, to the point that Sujamal already knows that there is no dissuading her, “I think I should have a name that better reflects myself and my station,”

As a twelve year old boy, Sujamal knows when it is best to indulge the younger ones in their opinions and certainly will always allow Jodhaa his patience. So, with a sparkle in his eye, he crouches down a little so as to meet her at her height and speaks in a kind voice.

“And what, Rani Sa, would you suggest your new name be?”

Finally, her armour breaks and gone is the lofty expressions, replaced by a delighted smile on his foster sister’s face.

“I can’t decide what I would like best. There is Rukmini or Satyabhama, Radhika or Shyamavati,”

“And we are limited to these four options? I suppose your mother has continued telling you stories about Lord Krishna,”

In truth, he knows that Rani Padmavati has filled her head with these tales, because all he has heard for the last four months or more are Jodhaa’s fascinated retellings of various scenes from the Mahabharata. Her devotion is encouraged, of course, and he must say that of all the things his little sister could be pious is one of the very best qualities. It is this knowledge that has meant that Sajamal has shown better endurance than Bhagwant Das, who was soon exhausted by his sister’s near endless discussion of Draupadi and Kunti well before she even began to talk about Rukmini and Satyabhama.

“Grandmother says that it is good that I want to devote my prayers to Lord Krishna,” Jodhaa confirms, “She thinks it is very suitable for young maidens to worship him in particular,”

 _Maidens?_ Sujamal almost questions. Fleetingly he wonders where her childhood has gone, if she is eight years old and already calling herself a maiden. He never has never had a childhood either, however, so full of swords and sacrifices.

His continued silence worries his sister.

“Bhai Sa, which one do you think is best?” She asks, noticing his more severe demeanour.

Sujamal quickly forces a smile before gesturing for her to sit as he takes a seat on the ground.

“There are many queens named Shyamavati or Satyabhama and even more girls called Rukmini and Radhika,” He answers, “There is only one Jodhaa Bai,”

At eight years old, the rajkumari of Amer has no way of knowing that history will not remember her as Jodhaa Bai. 

* * *

When the great day finally arrives and Jodhaa is betrothed to Rajkumar Ratan Singh, the question of her name yet again begins to trouble her.

“What if the Ajabgarh court is confused about my heritage?” The young girl asks, sitting in the centre of a circle of the harem women as they practiced their needlework. “What if my subjects do not know who I am?”

“Ajabgarh is not Lanka, beti,” Dayawati answers, sparing not even a glance from the embroidery despite her amused tone, “Even some farmers have likely heard of our province and many will welcome your wedding procession, in due time,”

“But what if they think I am from Jodhpur and not Amer? I am named for my mother’s city and they may grow confused,”

If she were Mainwati, the rajkumari has no doubt that the woman with her would have already scolded her for her unnecessary chatter, but Dayawati is the sweetest of her father’s wives and has always indulged the children. She pauses for but a moment before continuing her work.

“You must set yourself to follow in Rani Sa’s example. If you prove yourself to be a benevolent and wise queen who upholds the honour of both your natal and marital homes, I have no doubt all of Ajabgarh will fondly recall Rani Jodhaa Bai a century from now,”

It is a kind, reassuring thing to say and Jodhaa’s words of gratitude are only just on her lips when her grandmother looks up from her own embroidered silks.

“Perhaps the Raja will give you new name when you enter the household,” She says, “It is not an uncommon custom. I was born Bala Bai, but was called Apoorva Devi upon becoming your grandfather’s principal wife,”

“Were you glad of the change?”

Her grandmother stares at Jodhaa, as though bemused by the very notion.

“It was a great honour,” Is her stern reply.

The rajkumari merely nods, having learnt long ago that when an answer was not initially volunteered pressing for one did little help.

“What sort of a name might I expect to be given?”

“I know of clans that often rename their daughters-in-law in honour of their kuldevi,” One of the ladies volunteers in a soft voice and Jodhaa turns in the dim light to see her. “Though I confess I do not know the name of the goddess the Ajabgarh clan reveres,”

Jodhaa’s own clan, the Kachawas, worship Jamvai Mata. Her father leads a pilgrimage to her oldest of temples every year, two days of hard riding across the desert perhaps one of the most taxing ventures he has undertaken since becoming king. The rajkumari was allowed to accompany him and her brothers a few times, though at the age of eleven such long journeys from home were increasingly inappropriate.

It is not a name that she would like, she thinks, but it is better than the one she has. History may very well remember her by a title she has yet to know and somehow she is content with that.

Ten years later, Jodhaa will not recall her earliest of musings on married life enough to recognise the irony of her naive thoughts.

* * *

Jalaluddin Mohammed.

She had heard the name of the Emperor of Hindustan countless times, each utterance always in amore fearful tone than the last. It is only when she hears the name from the tongues of his own messengers as they demand her father’s submission does Jodhaa marvel at the sheer strangeness of the sound. Without the familiar accents of her home, it is even more odd. Without realising it, the rajkumari repeats it in her mind, lips unconsciously testing the feel of it. She is fortunate she is still quiet enough to go unnoticed, however, concealed behind the thick curtains that seperate the open roofed court from the gallery where she hides.

Sujamal stands beside her, clutching the pillar with his ear almost brushing the fabric as he listens to the emperor’s decree. Though uninvited, the prince was determined to observe the calamitous meeting that would no doubt occur upon the arrival of Mughal envoys in Amer.

“Bhagwant Das is in attendance,” He had said when his foster sister inquired after his destination, catching him as he veritably thundered across the palace, “I have as much right to know as he does,”

To have a woman present in the court, no matter how covertly, was entirely inappropriate. But Jodhaa reasoned that Dada Bhai Sa could hardly scold her or turn her away, let alone inform her father of her incursion, given that she was merely following him. So, they listened together with bated breaths as their little kingdom’s doom was determined.

Jodhaa’s eyes sting as she hears what is surely a death sentence and her foster brother shares her worried look. Her father, they know, has little choice but to invite this Jalaluddin’s wrath upon them. Another moment and she would have turned and fled, fighting away tears, but then the Raja speaks and her heart stops.

“I need some time to consider,” He says, almost limply, and although Jodhaa can not see him she knows how he must look, weakened as he sits upon a now too small throne.

She should be glad that her father’s indecisiveness has, for once, blessed their kingdom, has bought them some time before their fall. All she feels, however, is shame. They are Rajputs, renowned since time immemorial for their courage and bravery, their honour and dignity, Kshatriyas who uphold dharma through their warrior hood and maintenance of those very same values. And yet her father, her king falters.

The messengers, it seems, accept the Raja’s response, though neither Jodhaa nor Sujamal now listen. Instead they stand in the silence of the curtained sanctuary, struggling to keep their emotions in check. Finally, the rajkumari forces herself to lift her eyes from the ground and raise her chin higher, because it is not she who has shamed them and her sense of ignominy is quickly being replaced by that of sheer indignation. It is then that she sees the ferocity in her brother’s gaze and something inside her shudders. There is nothing but rage in his eyes, a burning fury that threatens to set them all aflame. Tentatively, she reaches for him, fingers grasping at his arm as though she fears he may throw the curtain aside and scorch his way before the throne at any moment.

Sujamal shakes his head once, twice and promptly turns about, shaking as he storms away.

“In the name of Jalaluddin Mohammed…” Words drift through to her ears, the harsh tones dampened by the fabric and once again Jodhaa feels the cursed syllables on her lips.

She does not know that is one of the last times she will ever utter his name, for a wife does not speak the name of her husband.

It is less than a month before the rajkumari finds herself lying at the feet of her lord, her head resting on his altar and the lyrics of a bhajan more breathy muttering than song as tears fill her eyes. Mohana gazes over her, his pleasant smile almost worsening the grief she feels deep within her chest. By her hand the diya flames flutter and the scent of jasmine works to soothe her, to no avail, but Jodhaa can not slow the thoughts that run rampant throughout her now chaotic mind.

She has heard of princesses and queens seized by muslim invaders, stripped of their honour, their customs, their religion and even their name. To know that she is destined for the very same fate… Her rajput pride can not abide it, nor her devoted heart.

The Mughal tongue, or rather what little she has heard of it, is foreign to her ears and their holy language even more so. Many of their names are taken from that language, she understood, distant intonations from a land far to the West that are so very different from the warm, rolling tones of her own dialect and the ancient sounds of her sacred speech.

They will not take her Krishna from her, she vows, nor replace him with their foreign deity of Allah and his prophet. They can not take away her name and impose in it’s stead some distant and long dead Islamic saint’s. It is her very last thought before she drifts to sleep, her head still at Kanha’s feet.

* * *

She is Malika-e-Hindustan, the wife of the Shahenshah and the mother to a nation of so many varied languages, cultures and customs. It is only fitting, Jodhaa decides, that she at least begin with her husband’s language as she embarks on her mission to better understand the new world she finds herself in - after all, he came to understand her heart so profoundly just as she had asked of him.

While Salima sources a suitable teacher for her, Jodhaa can not help but look to the future, anticipate it even. The very tongue that at first had seemed so strange to her, just another reminder of the foreign place she had come to, she now admires, even relishing the sounds of it. At times she thinks there is a near musical cadence to the way the words form, particularly as she sits with her mother-in-law in purdah as they watch her husband deliver his fine oratories in the Diwan-i-Khas. Though, perhaps her love for the language came only with her love for him, first soft and gradual affection and then a sudden and all consuming devotion.

Either way, she is eager to learn and even more eager to share her new found knowledge with her husband.

She begins with basic letters, learning the writing system and at times relearning sounds that she has either misremembered or confused with those from her own dialect. She has always been quick witted and, more importantly, a dedicated student and it takes her a matter of weeks to obtain sufficient mastery to progress further.

“Calligraphy is an art,” Her teacher tells her as he demonstrates the way in which to grasp the pen and Jodhaa holds it lightly in her hand, “There is a reason it is used to decorate mosques and shrines,”

Jodhaa supposes that as an art it is no different from her bhajans in that regard, both marvelling in the glory of the divine and expressing it in the only way that a soul can.

The first words she learns to draw in calligraphy are not, however, holy words from scriptures. She may not risk speaking her husband’s name aloud, but there are other ways to mark it and she delights in the beauty that can be created from it alone. When she is satisfied with her skills she asks for his presence and forever more Jodhaa will admire the long gliding vines and flourishes an artistic rendering of the emperor’s name produces, even if he may not.

* * *

The labour is long, tiring and overall agonising. It has been years since Jodhaa remembers ever crying out in pain, but what dignity remained to her was abandoned hours ago and now she veritably screams. Writhing on the bed as her handmaids pet at her brow with clothes, running soothing hands down her arms in an effort to comfort her, she weeps as another wave of pain washes over her.

“Not long now, Malika,” The chief midwife is saying.

“You are strong yet, Jodhaa,” Madhavi tells her and Neelakshi echoes the sentiment, loyally clutching her lady’s hand.

The empress does not feel strong in that moment. Instead she feels so very weak and desperate, having convulsed in pain for a day and a night already to no avail. It had been the early morning when she first felt the tremors, with Salima finding her curled in bed in the dawn light, clutching at her stomach, and immediately summoning the attendants. A mere few hours ago, she could still hold a conversation, could still think and pray and breathe. Now, the last of her endurance is waning like the night.

The only reason she still struggles is the child within her, straining to escape his mother.

She had waited seven years for the moment the doctors could confirm her blessing, to see the joy in her husband’s eyes and feel the small fluttering movements of a growing babe inside, but the fear of being wrong had stayed her hand until there could be no denying of her condition. After years of her sincere pleas to Krishna and her husband’s own pilgrimages to sufi saints, their wishes had finally been granted. Jodhaa, near giddy with delight after the midwife’s first visit, was only able to contain herself util dusk, confiding in her emperor as the mahal was filled with the divine golden light they had once basked in all those years ago.

She strives to think of that moment when the pain returns again, so close together now that there is hardly a second to think in the little reprieves. Of the jubilation in his eyes, reflecting what was in her own heart, and the thousands of times they had thought on their son since then.

“Malika, you must push now,” A voice directs her and Jodhaa wants to weep, from exhaustion or joy she does not know.

There is so much blood, too much blood. She can smell it from where she lays, poorly concealed by the incense that swirls about her head, and distantly she knows she ought to be worried, scared even. Her maids are, she can tell, anxiously eyeing her pale face and the soaked sheets.

“You are a Rajput, Jodhaa Bai,” Neelakshi tells, gripping her hand in an iron fist. “You will not lose this fight,”

Finally, a baby’s shrill cry pierces the air and the room full of women comes to a standstill.

“It’s a boy,” A midwife announces as another rushes to a basin of water to promptly wash the small, blood covered thing in her arms, “Malika has delivered a son,”

“Tell Shahenshahji,” Jodhaa breathes to no one in particular. The world is dimming around her as she tries to sit up from her pillows, “Tell him to name him for one of his saints,”

Later that night, as she admires the look of a son in her husband’s arms from her seat on the bed, the new mother discovers she too will be conferred a new name.

“Mariam-uz-Zamani,” He decrees, “Mary of the Age,”

Jodhaa does not know that history will remember her by this title, nor that there will come a day when even the scholars doubt that her name ever was Jodhaa Bai. She only knows how long the journey has been for her, from Shyamavati to Mariam, and the sheer pride the honorific evokes in her. Her husband guides the infant into her waiting arms and she nods her head, gaze never leaving Salim's face. 

"Mariam-uz-Zamani," She murmurs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Thank you so much for reading. While I am not new to this movie, I am new to the fandom in that this is my first fic for it, so please let me know what you think! :)


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